Skin on Skin
by Tare-Bear
Summary: Modern AU. Donated by the lovely Elsterbird. Wherein Katniss attends art school. NudeModel!Peeta.
1. Chapter One

A/N: Long time no see, I know. This story is a treat, but it's not strictly speaking my story. It was given to me by a friend, **ElsterBird**, and I've loved reading all that she already had. Mostly, it's just me being a supreme editor and posting it here, so do send her thanks or praise for the story if you are so inclined. It's not one of my usual stories, which is refreshing to me and hopefully for any readers out there. Reviews are love, let me know if you want more. Thank you for reading.

* * *

**Monday, far too late in the morning**

Shit, shit, _shit!_

I race down the apartment building's front steps as fast as my aching knees allow me to.

When I had stormed out of my room earlier this morning I fell down almost half of _those_ stairs. And of course, like a bush-league cliché movie would suggest, I had forgotten to close my bag so all my paints and brushes flew through the air and scattered on the steps around me. I still wonder how I'd managed to land in a big pool of yellow paint; my butt looks as if I'd been sitting on a banana – or worse. On top of all that I'm late – _very late_ – for art school, on the day we had to take our final painting exam; one of the most important tests of the year.

We'd been working on different painting styles to prepare for this exam for the last eight weeks and, even thus, I'd felt fucking incapable to begin with. I know how to handle pens and pencils, graphic tablets and even coal, but I'm hopeless with paint. I'm pretty amazed how the paint manages to find its way onto my face more often than on my canvas. I'm not stupid or inept, don't get me wrong, but I simply have no talent for painting.

Every time I admitted this out loud Gale would sigh and repeatedly say, "You don't need talent to paint. You just need more patience and the power of observation. That's all." _Yeah, sure_. His comment might have had kind intent, but I have the patience and the power of a hunter, and it doesn't help me a whit.

I hate acrylic paint, and it hates me, but this test is important, so one or two weeks before the final, I'd panicked. I'd gone frantic; Gale had even given me some tutoring lessons (after begging), sometimes even at the inconvenient times late in the night because of my work shifts (hardcore begging), but I could not get the feeling for bright or dark and warm or cold colors altogether. Everything I did just turned out like shit. I couldn't even mix a proper black and that's supposed to be easy. I mean, just mingle the right proportions of blue, red, and yellow. You can even check if you're right when you mix white into it. If the color turns out grey, you're right. Mine turned out pink, every fucking time.

And today, the day on which I finally had to prove myself, to put Gale's tutoring and all my sleepless hours mixing colors to good use, I'd simply overslept. Four hours! Obviously I was paying for those sleepless hours in a way, but god, how could I have let that happen? I do a lot of dumb things, but usually I had the good sense to set an alarm and oversleeping was never a problem.

Actually, I'm somewhat the queen of calculating. My days are filled with constant precarious limits; How many lessons could I be absent from without being expelled? How many lessons could I skip without failing my subjects? If I'm ever late to school, it's because I'd planned it.

_Planned! _"Ha," I muttered under my breath, pushing through the entrance door. _Since when does anything go as I planned?_ By the looks of me one might think I'm a lazy schlep or something, but that's not the case.

If I cared to move other by pity, then I'd probably mention the fact my father died less than a year ago and I am unable to visit classes as often as the others do anymore because my family depends on my wages and I need to work at night and sometimes even during the day.

I knew there were programs for such things, but I couldn't really be moved to do all the paperwork, nor would I risk losing my little sister, Primrose, to foster care. I wasn't sure what they'd do to check on my home life, but I'm fairly certain they'd notice my mother lying unfailingly in her bed with the vaguest expression in her face you'd mistake her for the living dead. Of course, she was not as amusing as a zombie out of the comedy "Shaun of the Dead" – she was less so. At least those zombie's had a passion for something (living flesh, or no) while my mother existed in a state of permanent unmoving, her only companions grief and misery.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mom – make that _loved_, with many grudging undertones – but when she'd decided to bury herself in a coma of depression, refusing to seek out medical assistance out of cowardice, I knew that we did not only lose our dad. She'd abandoned us, much worse than he had, willingly, and I'd never forgive her for that… and now I see her shape underneath the blankets as nothing more than a nuisance. And all I feel towards her is shame. Shame towards the fact that she can't pull herself together to help her own daughters and shamed at myself at the fact that I can't accept the things how they are now. I can't even talk to her about being a coward on my own, nor motivate myself to drag her unwilling to a hospital, and face the medical tidal wave of bills and troubles waiting there…

I'm a chip off the old block, aren't I? And honestly, I hated pity too much to use it in order to move my teachers into easing up on me and so as a result I'd given up precious time in school, in order to work and sell and provide, and everything I did was to guarantee my sister a good life. Well, a _better_ life. At the rate things are going now, after this missed final, I might as well have dropped out weeks ago to find a proper full time job as I'd begun to consider. What better life can I give if I fail out and have no back up plans or jobs waiting for me?

_I can't believe I overslept!_ This final exam literally decides the outcome of my education. No. My entire future even! What was I thinking not setting an alarm? Why had I agreed to stay for a four a.m. shift? Crane, my boss, might be strict, but I could have begged another girl to cover!

I slam my bag down on the bus seat, angry at myself and frustrated with the sun rising steadily in the sky. As I'm staring out of the window and praying for a miracle I realize that the paint on my jeans hasn't dried fully yet, smearing the leather beneath me. I need to get out of the bus before the driver realizes. Before _anyone_ realizes. Else I might have to pay for it – and that's not going to happen. And really, it's not like anybody would take the time to look over me. My hair's disheveled (messy braid style, my forever go-to _I'm late_ hairstyle) and it's unwashed since yesterday morning. To think about it, I haven't even looked into the mirror this morning. I try to flatten any flyaways as I sit, and I try to puzzle out if I've still got yesterday's makeup on. I hope my pillow got it for me…

However; just my luck, today they're actually looking instead of ignoring my existence. With sharp, annoyed glances or curious unguarded stares that I try to ignore. At least I know now that my pillow is a shitty makeup remover. It's dully noted. I try to rub my eyes clean blindly, hoping it'll help.

I end up arriving to the correct classroom around four hours late, breathless.

Miss Trinket, the instructor, is frantic the moment I shut the door behind me. "Everdeen!" she trills. For fuck's sake her voice is shrill. "You're far too late! What are you thinking?"

I mutter my apology, distracted with trying to find a place to sit down (and hide my butt), but Effie has a different plan and cuts me off. "There's no way you can start the final now. You're just a distraction to the others who actually care about their future," she chided.

What? She's going to deny me the chance to take the test? Is that allowed? I know if I don't get this grade in the books I'll fail this class and by that factor I won't be able to graduate.

I'd planned on coming today! Really, I swear!

"Miss Trinket, I'm really, really sorry, but... –" I try to apologize more sincerely, but I know it's in vain. Her gaudily makeup slathered face is pinched with that familiar look she reserve especially for me. Effie hates me and I don't mean it in the 'I'm the student that skips and makes her days harder' way. Ever since I'd dumped her son, Cato, (he didn't even care to tell me he'd been her son at all, not until the next day her usual chirp was gone) Effie has made it her mission to undercut me in everything I do. Apparently gradating will be one of those things.

_Cato_: another dark chapter of my past. Why is it I am _still_ paying for that?

"No buts, Everdeen! Out with you! You're disrupting your classmate's peace and concentration. Out, out." She ushers me toward the door with her hands and legs like I am nothing more than a mutt. About halfway there I forget my protests and storm off, and it takes all my will power not to shatter her own snobby, high-heeled peace with a decisively aimed middle finger.

Well, shit.

This is it. I'll never become a director, because just now, I've failed one simple art class.

I sit down next to the coffee dispenser a little ways down the hall to the classroom. What should I do? Could I go get some paints from Madge and simply improvise? I know the paintings aren't graded in this school. This art school is merely a necessary pre-stage to get into the actual University. Our works would be judged at UZH, University of Zürich, by some committee. Thinking about it now… I could just ... smuggle my work in, without Effie's knowledge.

I've never heard of anyone doing that before, but why not? I don't have anything to lose. I don't have the time or money to re-enroll and re-take the class, and I know the University doesn't look kindly on kids who have gone through the pre-program twice. I could… just cheat, I guess you'd call it… by smuggling the work in, so it's not technically counted as late… or missing.

Am I really even _considering_ this? It's not a crime, is it? Who would take the time to care about one desperate student? There's no full scale investigation for this kind of stuff… and worse goes to worst on what they could do to me I'm sure it is just fail me and kick me out – but I'm already facing that reality. Again, nothing to lose…

Cheating it is, I decide.

So, being late and kicked out of the classroom aside, I still need to paint. But what?

I throw my head back in disbelief. Fuck, I don't know what they were painting. I hadn't even bothered to look! What sort of subject would Miss Trinket use for the final? Fruit? Shoes? Flowers? With her, it could have been a pair of pink dyed poodles for all I know!

Damn it, why hadn't I looked at our subject before leaving? Really now, how many mistakes am I going to make today? I claim to be an expert at calculating, but I seriously didn't even _glimpse_ our subject for the final, which is key in pulling this cheating scheme off. Well, fuck that.

I sink down next to the coffee machine. I get the last centimes out of my purse and I realize that I don't even have enough for a watery and tasteless instant coffee. I kick it as if it'd help me.

Of course it doesn't. But I do feel a bit better now that I have an outlet for my frustration.

I could go home, maybe clean up a bit, shower… there's no point in staying here, since there's no way to take the exam now. Is there? I could try to talk to our principal, Haymitch Abernathy, about this, but he most likely won't be giving me a second chance. He's a real hardass and I suspect he just wants to get in Effie pants... again, if the rumors are to be listened to.

He wouldn't do anything that risked his chances with her.

With people like that all around me, what am I to do?

(And people wonder why I don't take the time to fill out the proper paper work.)

* * *

I sit next to the coffee dispenser for what feels like an hour, deep in thought, and unmotivated to actually go anywhere or do anything. I think about my options again, but the solution is not clear. I came to the conclusion that cheating is actually going to be impossible. Even if I snuck into the classroom now, the small amount of time Effie spends ushering me out again won't be enough to memorize everything about the subject – the lines, the colors, the light, the shadows – and I didn't bring my camera, nor did I think any of my other classmates would have taken a picture.

I sigh.

_There goes my chance at the University._

I should probably call Cato about that job he'd been offering – apparently the pay is better.

I pull out my phone, _actually_ contemplating calling the bastard, when a deep, raspy voice remarks from beside me, "That was pretty rough back there. You okay?"

I look up to find a student I've never seen before. It's not that unusual to see strangers every now and then; there were more than a hundred people studying art, not to mention the other four hundred students that studied psychology and science in the same building.

It's just usually they don't bother to speak to me.

Which is a good thing, but this guy was a particularly nice looking guy and I won't lie, my interest in this conversation was pretty high initially. Wavy pale blonde hair fell over his forehead, nearly covering his pretty, almost unreal looking blue eyes.

_Almost unreal?_ They look photoshopped or something.

I shouldn't stare, it's not a nice thing to do, but I quickly scan the rest of what he has to offer; broad shoulders, slender waist, muscular arms. Not the bodybuilder- or I-go-to-the-gym-to-impress-the-girls- type, but the shape seemed more natural. As if he worked as a construction worker or something, or from a long life of sports and genuine work labor.

Then, I realize that I haven't given him an answer, so I say, "Yeah, Effie doesn't like me that much." I shrug. "I had it coming at me I guess." _Even though I know it's Cato's fault._

"Still…" the stranger offers and stops himself, looking away. He puts his hands in his jean pockets and leans against the wall next to me. I'm still sitting next to the machine; I must have looked very sulky if he felt the motivation to come say something.

From the corner of my eye I watch Effie and a handful of strangler students leave the classroom. The exam seems to be finished and there's no more reason to cling to hope sitting here. I pat my pants clean and stand up. "I should get going now. There's no reason to stay here any longer."

I turn around to grab my bag, as the guy beside me snorts loudly. "What?" I ask, my voice edged with annoyance. _Does he think my failure is amusing?_ He holds up his hands defensively, feigning innocence, and it might have helped, if he wasn't grinning like a mischievous child.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to gape there but… you didn't notice a wet paint sign, did you?"

I frowned. "Ha-Ha, babyeyes. You know, the school for clown's just round the corner."

I hide the yellow stains on my butt with my hands. Yes, I'm ashamed. I mean, hey, I just met someone who looks like a freaking photoshopped Adonis or something, and the only reason why someone like him would be checking out my ass would be because I got stupid, of all things bright, paint on it like some…luminous advertisement that says "look at what I've got!"

Or what I haven't.

"Sorry, really," he utters after a moment, and scratches his neck, sheepish. His amused smile has vanished in a matter of milliseconds. "I didn't want to appear rude." _Or perverted?_

"Well, you did," I shoot back. "It's not my day at all, so why don't you just leave me alone? I don't think it's funny to make stupid jokes. I hate it, actually." Oh, please. I would have probably laughed my ass… head (!) off, if my future hadn't gone south today.

It's his turn to frown.

"You're right, sorry. It was… immature?" Is this a question? He clears his throat. "Don't take it to heart. It's only one of many exams, I'm sure it's not that grave if you don't submit it."

I lean against the coffee dispenser, press my eyes shut and hit my head on it lightly. "If you knew."

"It's that serious?" he asks.

Oh, how would this baby-eyed Adonis know?

"I'm torn between begging Haymitch on my knees or simply dropping out."

"You're kidding!"

"I'm not. You apparently don't know my jokes." I open my eyes and push myself away from the machine. I should go now, get rid of him as fast as possible and crouch into some dark, nasty hole. And perhaps beg Crane for more shifts, since I'll be able to work more from now on.

This guy however doesn't look like he wants to end our conversation anytime soon.

"No. I don't know you at all, so how would I recognize them?"

I tip my chin with my pointer finger as if I was thinking hard. Really, I contemplate him again, wondering if it's even worth allowing the conversation to continue. Okay, give him the deathblow. No guy wants to see a girl's geek side. We'll let him end the conversation himself.

"Well, that's quite easy, babyeyes. If I was kidding I'd say: "A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, 'Why the long face?'" I deadpan the entire thing. He doesn't laugh, as I thought.

Instead, he asks in surprise, "Have you just recited Hot Shots Part Deux? I've never met a girl who would quote such a movie. Any movie anyway. It's one of my favorites."

Okay, I didn't expect that. I really didn't. I brush a lose strand of hair behind my ear. "Holy shit, I thought I'd scare you off like this," I admit. "For my defense, I have a better sense of humor than this, just to say…"

He laughs. "That I can see."

That's it, I'll just have to make the terminal stop myself. I'm sure our conversation's pretty much over now; what else is there to talk about? We covered my failure. I bend again to get my bag and I'm on my way to tell him goodbye, but he somehow manages to rekindle our conversation.

"So, what are you going to do now?" he asks and he seems sincerely interested in my fate.

I shrug. "Trying to find out how to cheat? Buy some apples and pears to draw them? I don't know. Have you taken the test?" I ask because I need more information, but as soon as those words have left my mouth I realize how stupid this question is. Of course he'd been in the room. How would he know about Effie and the scene of ushering me out if he wasn't? I slap my forehead. "I'm stupid. Of course you'd know. Mind to tell me what the subject was? I'm thinking about taking the test alone and sneaking my work to UZH by myself on Saturday…"

For a moment he just stares at me.

Suddenly flush – wow, I just admitted to cheating to a stranger – I turn a little to hide my flushed face. It's an awkward way to be, turning my face, not to mention getting so flustered in front of a stranger, but I'd rather show him my pants than my face right now. He's seen them already, so…

He clears his throat suddenly and smiles boldly.

"Oh… Yeah, I kinda was in there…" he began and laughs again. Is it still about my pants?!

"What?" I bark at him when I face him again, regretting the turn. "Seriously, I'm sorry that I've got no clean pants on, but I don't think your choice of garment is much better, really!"

Looking him up and down I know I'm right. He's wearing jeans, okay, but what's with his shirt? Or the lack of his shirt? What's that? A fucking bath robe? Where are his socks? His shoes?

He looks down at himself and tugs on the collar of his bath robe. "This?" he asks, astonished. "Umm… I didn't laugh because of your clothes, by the way. I admit it's funny, but only for the first time."

"So why?" I throw my hands up slightly. Babyeyes is starting to annoy me.

"Sorry, I guess I need to explain… I thought it was funny…I mean… you haven't seen me?"

I send him a glare.

"Why should I have seen you?" I say and roll my eyes. Oh god, what a jerk. He's full of himself! I should have known; nobody with this kind of appearance would be nice and genuine…

Somehow my anger makes him insecure. He's trembling. Oh, no. He's trembling because he needs to control his laughter. Asshole… "You are something…" he starts to say, before the laughter breaks through. "Okay, so let me tell you the theme of your exam, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart?_ I almost throw back at him. I feel an urge to slap him for it, though it's a show of how really unstable I tend to be, and to make a show like that in the halls of soon-to-be-not-my-school seemed a bit extreme. But the urge was there. Besides, he's going to give me some valuable data. One ill-timed nickname is worth that ,surely. "What is it?" I ask, jaw clenched.

His grin grows wider. "It's nude painting."

"Nude what!" No. No. Not possible, right? No?

He slowly unties his belt and opens the bathrobe. Underneath he's not wearing anything beside his jeans, and when my glance meets his glorious body, I realize that he will get rid of them as soon as he steps into the art room again. I know his words before he says them: "I'm the model."

Fuck. My. Life. Good thing I didn't slap him, then, huh? "Okay...that's... awkward" I laugh, the sound off. There's no point in hiding my flushed cheeks, is there? I just give up trying on that.

I've never met anyone who's something like a nude model. In some sense I always thought it was a little like they are selling their bodies; it's certainly not what I believe to be a... proud kind of work. I wouldn't even see it as work. Work is hard. Being nude.. well... I guess it's not. But then who am I to complain? I don't think it's less humiliating working for Crane in his scruffy, stinky bar, where most of the guys think if they're paying for drinks they also get asses to grab for free.

I can see where his idea to get into the business comes from. I mean, his torso is broad and muscular, so are his arms and surely his legs, too. His face is more than handsome and his unruly blonde hair and his eyes make me squirm. Oh, and not to forget, there's almost no chest hair to find on him, what I really like on men. The only hair I can spot is his oh-so-alluring happy trail that finds its way from his navel down to... well, let's just say painting him wouldn't hurt you.

I flush again. If I hadn't come too late I would have seen him. I mean _all_ of him.

Part of me enjoys the thought and another, larger part doesn't.

I'm not prude. I've seen naked men before and that's not the problem. I just find it gross... if not uncalled for to imagine how he looks like when I don't even know him. I mean, the men I've seen till this day were known to me. And they got undressed in… the process. Not before, or while I'm sitting there, observing, trying to replicate, with him fully aware. It just feels wrong having someone strip in front of you (I'd feel so ashamed and overdressed then!), just so you can study.

It's a lame excuse for checking him out.

At least he laughs too and scratches the soft stubble on his jaw. Oh, stubble.

Can he get even more handsome?

"You're right, it's kind of awkward, I guess. I usually don't talk to students at all. Not before, during, or after. I like to think that I leave the arts room as a different person," he says.

I nod understandingly.

"If I were you, it would freak me out if I couldn't forget all those people... checking me out, I guess. Don't they hit on you all the time? We have almost no men in class and you're stripping in front of a horde hungry coyotes or something." _Unless, of course, it's the men he's after..._

"I don't worry about that," he says, amused, as he holds up his left hand and shows me the simple silver band on his ring finger. "I'm under protection, you see."

So he's not on market then. What a pity. At least I know it's not the men.

"Don't you ever worry about your girlfriend? Wife? She must be one hell of a girl. I mean I'd absolutely hate it if my man would be willing to strip down before strangers ... well... it feels like he would be cheating to me. No offense."

He just shrugs. "None taken, don't worry about it. I hear that a lot. And, well, I can't really help it. It's the way the job works. And I guess your man wouldn't be happy with it, either."

It's my turn to shrug.

"Got no one. Just makes everything too complicated. Relationship and stuff, I mean."

I must sound like a ice queen, but at least I'm honest. I don't have time for a boyfriend; I need to care for my family and work for a living. (And I used to have to worry about going to school, but guess not.) There's no way I could go out to meet interesting people to get to know them better.

I surely am allowed to look, though. And I do.

I wished I could look down his body again, but he's wearing his bathrobe properly again. Damn.

His mouth forms a little, understanding "o" as he raises his eyebrows. I raise mine, too.

"Don't you think it would be appropriate to tell me your name before showing me this," I point to his chest, "and asking me about my nonexistent boyfriend?"

"Whoa, right!" He jumps in surprise and his hand shoots out immediately. "I'm really sorry. I'm trying to convince you that I'm not rude, but everything seems to be working against me today. I'm Peeta."

"What's your last name?" I ask, intrigued. I've never met him before, but Luzern is such a small place, so I might have heard of his family before.

"Just Peeta. I won't give anyone my family name. It's just... too intimate. I like to keep a low profile."

I gawk at him in shock. Intimate! Says he!

It takes me some time to realize that he's waiting for my reply.

"I ummm… I'm Katniss." I start before adding: "I'd give you my full name, but I think it wouldn't be fair now, would it?"

"You've got a point there, Katniss. Pleased to meet you." he answers.

"Pleasure's on my side, I guess."

We shake hands. After a few seconds I remember that he'd be the one who could save my career.

He could be my nude model.

I wonder if this is a good idea. I shouldn't get close to these kind of people. I can already hear my classmates talking about us behind our backs. But do I really mind? I don't like anyone that are my classmates anyway. The only people I care about are in different classes, so who cares? If my acquaintance with Peter can rescue my future, I'd gladly risk being the topic of their accusations.

Plus, he already knows about my plan to cheat. I should give it a try, right?

"So, ummm... can I ask you something?"

He raises his eyebrow and shifts his weight. Even in his stance you could infer that he's used to being a model. I know it from how he stands, comfortably and yet confident. His girl must be a really lucky one. "Of course," he answers to my question. "What's up?"

"Well..." I mumble and cross my arms in front of my chest, letting my bag glide back to the floor again. I suddenly feel ashamed to say what I intend to. It feels so completely wrong. "Yeah, umm... w-would you mind... being my model? I need to paint you... if I don't… I will definitely fail, so..." I don't even dare to look at him. It feels like I asked him to have sex with me, which is ridiculous. He's just getting naked for god's sake, but still. I feel my cheeks are glowing.

Peter frowns slightly and takes a small step back. I notice his reservation right away. But really, shouldn't he have been expecting this? "When?" he asks. I know from his tone it's not a 'no'.

"Immediately, I mean... this week?" I reply shyly but very hopefully. It's on short notice, but he's my only hope obviously. I do have a dead line before the smuggling option closes up.

"I don't know..." he says hesitantly and rubs his stubbled chin. "I'm pretty busy this week."

"But… but I really need to do this. You are my only chance!" I plead. Oh god, I'm already at pleading. I'm sure he already regrets having talked to me at all. I mean, hello? Desperate here.

He bites his lip and thinks, shaking his head occasionally.

"Listen, Katniss. I think you're pretty funny and that you surely are a good person. It wouldn't be hard to be your friend actually, so please don't take it the wrong way, but I can't help you right now... if I could, I'd agree immediately. But there is no time, and the inconvenience, and... yeah."

"Oh."

I let my head sink in defeat. That's it.

At least I've tried. At least I can tell Prim that I've given my best. But it bothers me to fail so close to my goal, so close! But I know that without him, I'm screwed. I'll definitely fail out, so why not drop out now? Get a head start on finding a job. So there's only one thing to do now: go to Haymitch and resign immediately. I won't have to spend my money on next semester's tuition fee I was working so hard for and I can spend it on Prim. And speaking of jobs, I can take on Cato's offer to work for SOCCO. It's a well-known chain for bars and pubs and Cato is one of the higher ups now, after working six years for them. He promised me good money for the job, better than I earn with Crane, but it didn't sit right with me before, because of our pat relationship.

What do I have to lose now?

I sigh. I need to call him. This thought makes me feel sick. I don't want to depend on him again.

_Don't think of him now. It only makes everything worse._

"Alright, I get it. Sorry to have bothered you."

I lean down to get my bag. I just want to vanish before I do something stupid like cry.

"Hey... hey! Wait!" Peter calls out when I pass him without another word. I don't want or need to talk to him anymore, it's just embarrassing. Normally, I'd go off. I stop immediately though.

"What?" I ask when I turn myself back to him.

"What made you miss your test in the first place?" he asks and I'm surprised.

_Why does he want to know?_

"I told Effie already. I overslept. You heard."

I try to walk away again, but he keeps on talking.

"Yeah... but why did you? If it's so important. Why have you missed the opportunity?"

Oh. He might think that I'm a lazy girl with no interest for my future. Of course he wouldn't help me if he thinks I have problems with motivating myself, and probably would waste that time he was talking about. Somehow it angers me, though. It's none of his business (okay, it actually kinda is now); I don't want him to act like he knew me. However, desperate here, still.

I answer him curtly. "Work." Then I scoff. I don't know why I would bother with telling him. He's a stranger whom I've just met; I shouldn't even have told him my name. I regret that.

Plus, what's a model know about work?

He just nods, looking concerned. "Are you going home now?"

"No. I need to see our principal, Mr. Abernathy."

"You gonna ask him for help?"

I roll my eyes. Ask Haymitch for help? I'm not that stupid. "No, I'm dropping out," I say, my voice almost failing. It feels so humiliating to take those words into my mouth. "Whatever."

Peter's eyebrows furrow as he runs a hand through his hair. "You can't do that."

Oh, yes, I can!

I throw him a dirty glance and shoulder my bag again. But I wait for him to say something. I mean, he can't advise me against something without giving me another option, can he?

He sighs and leans against the wall beside me; crossing his arms and his ankles.

"Okay... how much would you pay me? If I made time for you, I mean."

My eyes widen in surprise. He wants to help me? If he did, I still could graduate! I'd cry out in joy, if I thought it was that easy. Instead, my face falls even more when realization hits me.

"Pay...? I need to pay you?" I ask timidly.

"It's hard work. And I'm obviously not stripping for free."

Fuck my life.

I retreat some steps.

"I can't pay you... I-I don't have any money..."

Peter gives me a bewildered look. "I thought you're working?" he asks disbelievingly. Oh great. He probably thinks I'm a junkie who spends all the money on drugs. I can't blame him. I'm not really... fancy. And my stained clothes would suggest that I am some fucked up girl, wasting all her money for dope or whatever. Or he thinks I'd lied before. About the work, I mean.

I glance back to my feet. Giving him money is clearly out of option. It's already hard enough to provide my family with two meals every day. I'd rather see Prim fed then to see myself pass.

"I _am_ working," I mutter awkwardly. "It's just hardly enough to…" _feed my family. _I bite on my lip to prevent me from talking. I shake my head; he doesn't need to know and he won't guess.

Again, I take a step away from him and give him a fake smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. I don't want him to think that I'm poor. Poor as a church mouse, actually. I'm too stubborn and proud to tell him. He's not even a friend. He's a stranger with my future in his hands. "It's okay, don't worry," I tell him, to smooth over the ruckus of the conversation. "I got it. I've… umm… wanted to start working full time anyway. I got some offers here and there, SOCCO and stuff…"

He takes a deep breath. If I didn't know it better I'd say that his face starts to look slightly pale. Does he feel bad for me? Does he think he'd be destroying my future if he didn't help me? Please god, let it be this case. Let him feel bad about this; I promise I'll be a good girl from now on and stop swearing immediately. I mean, pity is... not the best (as aforementioned), but I could live.

"No. Don't," he says and bites his cheek. Then: "I can make some time for you. Tomorrow and the next two days after. In the worst case I could help you out on Friday, too. Two hours a day."

Fuck me,_ awesome! _"You'd really do this for me?" I jump and almost hug him, a stranger, for a second there. _Whoa,_ Katniss. "I will make it up for you. Anyhow, I swear! Thank you so much!"

Peter just shrugs and gives me a small smile. He's happy for me, but also concerned and somehow… aggrieved? He must hate the thought of me stealing his precious time.

Whatever, I've got my model, hell yessss!

"I'll ask you to do me a favor one day and we're even. I'll tell you what I have in mind then..?"

"Okay," I agree eagerly.

He saves me and I'm sure I could be of any help for him in the future. Whatever he needs.

I give him a wide smile – he looks surprised to see it – and I start to cram in my bag for a pen. "Would you give me your number?" I ask. Oh crap, am I too forward? I should add something. Anything. "I mean, for if I overslept again..." I laugh nervously as he gives me a soft chuckle.

"Yeah, let's hope that's not the case? You'll have a hard time painting without me."

"Right, I'm just kidding. I won't leave you hanging."

"Seriously, please don't." He gets out his phone and starts creating a new contact. I look at him expectantly; pen and notebook ready in my hands. "Wait," he says. "Just give me yours and I'll ring you. Ummm... Katniss, right? How do you spell that? Starting with C? One S?"

I shake my head in amusement while I dictate to him my number.

"K," I correct him, "K and double S."

"That's a weird name," he remarks.

"Oh Peeta, I'm sure being named after some kind of bread is a lot weirder." I laugh, amused.

He looks at me in surprise.

"Oh wow, you got it right in the first shot? Everyone thinks I'm called Peter."

I stare at him, dumbfounded, and my mouth stands wide open. Here I was, referring to him as Peter the entire time. "You're not?" I ask him, aware of a trap. "Your name really is 'Peeta'?"

"Yeah?"

"That's a weird name," I mock him. He chuckles softly and gives me an amused nod. Then his eyes are caught by his mobile phone again and he starts typing. A few seconds later my phone buzzes. Luckily my phone's in silent mode because my old Nokia's ringtone is awful.

"There. Miss Trinket's told me the rooms here are occupied this week so I'll text you later and tell you where to meet up. I know a studio where we can work in. I need you to be ready from nine to eleven in the morning. Would that be acceptable for you?"

"Yes," I jump to agree. I can't believe he'd even thought about a studio. I can't possibly bring him home, can I? Never ever. Definitely not an option. Meeting up in the mornings are, however, fine for me. I'll need to skip a few lessons, but it's just textile design with Miss Portia. I've hardly ever missed any of her lessons since she's definitely my favorite, so I'm sure it will be okay.

"Just text me the location," I tell Peeta. "I'll confirm immediately."

"Perfect. Just be on time and try not to stay up for too long, okay?" He winks (winks!?) and puts his phone back into his pants pocket.

"I won't do that twice, I promise." I'm too grateful to miss this opportunity.

"Fine. Meet me tomorrow? I really need to go now." He glances at the clock behind me and frowns slightly, probably calculating how many minutes he'd need to get to his next destination, wherever it is. Stripping for another bunch of people maybe? Meeting up with that girlfriend?

"Alright. Yes. Tomorrow it is, then. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome."

"Bye, Peeta." I try his name on my tongue. I definitely like it better than Peter.

"Yeah, see you, Katniss." He waves.

No. See _you_.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Just as promised, Peeta sent me some address of a studio he knows. It's called "Odair's" and it would take me around forty minutes to get there by train. What a joke! I told this guy I don't have any money to spend and a one way ticket would cost me ten bucks! I don't earn much at Crane's and spending sixty bucks on train tickets is so... unreasonable!

But okay, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

My shift at Crane's starts at four in the afternoon, and I get a free afternoon on exam days so, luckily, I can work way longer to earn some money for my tickets (It still sucks as hell!).

Work is even worse than usual today. Clove, the other waitress, is just a bitch and keeps on ranting about me, because I refuse to clothe myself like a slut (like her, get it?). The tips go into a shared pot and she claims that I'm holding the others back. I don't care. I'm not a coozie and I have dignity. People like Clove and Peeta may be alright to sell their bodies, I however, am not.

I never tell her so, since I hate to talk to her. I just try to keep myself out of her sight.

Oh yeah, and I manage to get a guilty feeling throughout the evening because I've just thrown Peeta into the same pot as Clove. I'm really sorry, Peeta. I know you are a good guy. Not like her.

The guilt does not vanish, though. Maybe I should bring him something tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Ohhh, tomorrow will be so awkward. And this feeling gets worse when I remember what I'd told him before. I won't leave you _hanging?_ Is it alright to say something like this to a nude model? I hope so. Or am I eccentric that I find it strange and suggestive? Am I thinking about it too hard?

Don't think about hanging and hard, Katniss! You're like a teenager.

I shake my head to hopefully block out those thoughts. My break's over, anyway.

I groan inwardly, the later the evening the worse it gets; more than four old guys grab my butt and the only thing I can do is clenching my teeth and walk away as fast as I can. _Tips_, after all.

Mother of hell, I should kick their asses to keep and protect my pride. The feeling of not being able to do anything against it nearly kills me. Today is particularly bad, so I focus all my thoughts on the only thing in this world for what's worth fighting for: Prim. It works, thankfully.

She should have a better life. (Not mine, not the ass-grabbing one.)

I get home around one in the morning and I feel horrible. Actually, I think I'm going to get sick. I can only hope that it passes. I can't possibly stand Peeta up, after all he's worked out for me.

Fortunately, when I wake up the next morning, I seem to be fine again. My throat is sore, but that's normal. Crane's one of the last bars the people still are allowed to smoke in, and the smoke affects my voice and throat greatly, especially when it gets colder. I merely rinse and call it good; at least I'm feeling well, albeit nervous. Very nervous. Why am I nervous, might one ask?

In less than two hours I'll be meeting this guy who's going to strip in front of me and I will have to paint everything. I mean _everything_. It's not helping that he looks like a fucking Adonis look-alike. I hope he doesn't look at me during because I'll surely be staring like a curious virgin.

Oh, I'll so be checking him out.

But I'll try not to.

I catch my train on time, but only after preparing Prim a good breakfast and something for lunch. I probably won't be home on time after my session with Peeta. I think "Odair's" not very close to the train station Zug, where I need to get out. He promised to get me at the station by car, because the way was quite long and a little bit complicated for people who didn't know the town. I told him that he didn't need to do that – I can take care of myself and I'm sure I'd be fine by taking the bus, but yeah, here he is. He apparently drives a black Seat Leon, a kind of car that somehow fits him well. He stops on the closest car park without cutting the engine.

"You need a ride?" Peeta grins and waves me over through an open window. He doesn't appear to be full of himself, like many others would in this situation; instead he's smiling genuinely and talks to me in a very friendly manner. His clothes (he won't be wearing them very long, though) suggest that he's got a pretty cool style, that makes him look better actually; enticing even.

And confident, oh so confident.

"Ummm… yeah. Thanks for picking me up. I'm not late, am I?" I ask nervously when I get to the car. He had leaned over and opened the door for me from the inside, and pushed it out.

"You're very welcome," he says, straightening again as I sit. "And no, you're perfectly on time. Besides, you were here before me, remember?" Peeta chuckles, running his fingers through his hair and mussing the golden locks. Careless – so much more than when we last met, at least.

I flush hard because he's totally right (stupid girl, use your brain!) and even more so because he's a real eye-catcher. Could this guy become even more appealing? Stop stroking that hair of yours!

"Yes. Yes, you're right!" I laugh, flustered as close the door. It takes me more than three times to buckle my seatbelt, realizing that my hands shake furiously. I feel Peeta's eyes on me, but he doesn't say anything. He steers out of the parking lot and soon he speeds through the town.

We don't talk much for he seems to be occupied with the heavy traffic.

I don't feel like talking anyway.

The weather's not that good today. It's cloudy and the breeze had been cold in the morning. But now the sky starts to clear up a little and the later morning light finally comes through. Soft rays of sunshine fall through the windshield onto his hands on the steering wheel; where his glistening silver ring draws in my attention. Relief spreads through me at the sight of it.

I'm seriously happy that he's taken. I'd be unable to concentrate on anything, especially painting, if he wasn't. My eyes shift away from the ring that protects him as it protects me from any approach. That's the thing with rings. It reminds me of that one Scrubs episode where J.D. realizes that all the women wearing wedding rings are completely invisible to him.

If only. I do _notice_ Peeta.

There's no way he would be invisible to me and the ring does not make him ugly. The ring on his finger changes everything though, because I know he's off limits. I just know better somehow to keep clear. I can't be attracted to him, so I will myself to keep my head straight and clear.

* * *

"Welcome, welcome," Peeta says as he leads me into the studio, embellishing the entrance while still remaining subdue. "It's my friend's personal studio. He's letting us use it for the time being."

I slide my bag off my shoulder and get rid of my shoes before entering. The studio's quite small, but the windows are big and provides the room with bright, warm light. The best thing is the location, though. We're on the fifth floor which is high enough to tower over the other adjoining buildings. Peeta could walk around here however he wanted, naked or not. No one (except for me, of course!) would be able to watch him here. "It's great," I tell him, honestly.

He'd prepared everything; easel, canvas, brushes and even some paints. Not that I haven't brought some with me, too. He probably just likes it to be prepared? When he sees that I got everything I need, he puts everything but the easel away. "Will you be okay like this?" he asks.

I nod with a shy smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Good," he replies and turns around. After only two steps, he remembers to ask me another question. He turns back. "Oh yeah, before we start, would you mind giving me your phone?"

I blink at him, as I set my bag on the floor. "You want my phone? Why?"

"Well, it happens that people secretly take photos of their models and I'd like to prevent that."

"But I would never do something like that!" I retort with a frown.

"I'm not accusing you. It's just for my own safety. I'm sure you understand."

Grudgingly, I nod. If I were a model I would be asking for it, too.

(But honestly, I don't like to let go of my belongings. I just have too few.)

I take my bag again and after some searching, I get my phone out. My old – very old – Nokia. I show it to him and feel my cheeks flush. It's battered and looks like it's been ran over by a car several times. "It can't take pictures with this," I admit, mumbling really, and turn it in my hands to show him its backside. No camera. It's an old, crappy Nokia 3410. "So, there's no worry."

"Oh, it's a quite old model you got there," he remarks but he seems to be ?! Is he joking? He's not. "I had the same one, around... wait, ten years ago? God, I feel old." He flashes me a bright smile. "It's classy, almost iconic. I like that one."

He's definitely joking, now.

I decide to play it off.

"Y-yeah right? I kind of lost my other one so I'm using it again. Back to the roots." He laughs and tells me that I could keep it with me, since there's no chance anyone could take a photo with it.

And I'm seriously glad about that.

"Okay, now that all questions have been dealt with," he meets my glance to check if I got some questions up my sleeve, and I shrug to tell him I have none, so he continues, "we can start now."

"Yeah," I mumble and we both grow silent. "Okay."

I know that he's now trying to distance himself by his facial expression. I'm no stranger to him anymore so it might be difficult for him, too. Stripping, I mean. After all, he said he never even talks to the artists. Let alone knows their names. I want to apologize for that, but don't know how.

He moves out of the room and I'm pretty sure that he's getting his bathrobe.

This is it.

What if he doesn't wear his bathrobe? Will he be coming out of there naked?

I try to concentrate on my paints, preparing my color palette and filling water (to clean the brushes) into my glass. Can I really do this? Really, _really? _I mean, we covered the 'I'm not the best painter' bit. I look around; there's a mattress leaning on the wall. Will he be laying on it? Will he be standing? I also discover a replica of a Greek amphora in a corner and I wonder if I'm supposed to paint the surroundings, too. I'm not really keen on painting it, plus him. It won't be the same, will it? To the other's paintings from class? Everything seems to double in complexity.

I nervously gulp down some water from my just filled glass and move my set up in front of the window, so I have the light at my back. "Don't you want anything else to drink?" Peeta asks amusedly. I almost choke in surprise. "Aren't artists supposed to put their brushes in there?"

Peeta had emerged from the other room and now he stands in front me, standing in nothing but his bathrobe… I immediately push the glass away. "S-sorry!" I try to say, but I yelp more like.

I'm sure I looked like someone who'd drink out of a horse's feeder! Oh, I feel so sappy right now. My cheeks are flaming and my hands shake even worse than before. There he stands, though still wearing clothes, I'm already freaking out. First about his nakedness, then the actuality of this entire situation – is it for nothing? How will I smuggle it in? What if I blotch the entire thing? Then I'd just be painting him in the nude for nothing. He, however, seems to be really calm as he holds out his hand and makes a "wait a sec" gesture and walks out of the room again.

Obviously he has faith in me to get this done.

So why am I freaking out so much? Why won't my hands damn well work _properly?_

I think about it and it hits me. It's because I'm alone. _We're_ alone. There might be no problem at all painting him in class, being one girl out of many, plus the males of the class. It wouldn't be so bad if everyone was looking at him and not just me. Alone though? Might as well be in the process of... _no, no, no. _Clear head, remember? Ring, remember? I just feel lightheaded.

Fuck my life – no, fuck Crane.

Fuck the fact that I had to oversleep yesterday..

Peeta appears in front of me as I yank myself out of my thoughts.

He hands me a cup, filled with ice cold sparkling water and smiles brightly. "Here. Sorry, I seem to be forgetting all my manners lately. Do you need anything else before we start?"

Some tissues perhaps? To shove them into my nose so you won't find out if my nose starts to bleed when I'm looking at your glorious, naked body? "No, thank you. I'm fine," I reply hoarsely, taking a small sip of the beverage and trying hard not to choke again.

Peeta, however, simply nods; he walks back to the middle of the room and I know he's going to start now. The show begins. He positions himself sideways to me as if he's trying to hide himself a little before getting down to the nitty gritty pieces – of 'his business'. Meanwhile, I gulp again and try to occupy myself with mixing some skin colored paint; which isn't actually that easy, thanks. I glance at him as inconspicuous as possible as he slowly starts to untie his belt.

Teasingly slow.

His eyes get this strange faraway look all of a sudden and his facial expression goes blank as the soft cotton robe slides over his body; down his broad chest, his narrow hips, his athletic legs…

I can't look. I really _can't_. I want to, though.

He bends to get the fabric, tosses it over the nearest chair and gets soundlessly into position (I guess the very same he had during the previous test within the classroom), facing the window.

I know he's ready. I know he wants me to start. But I can't bring myself to look at him. What if I stare? If he thinks I'm a creep? What if he wants to see what I'm painting afterward?

What if he doesn't _like_ it?

Several minutes pass and I haven't looked at him even once.

This fact does not escape him however and he starts to get a little anxious.

Peeta clears his throat. "I'm ready," he says.

Of course I know you are! He's looking at me, but I don't return his gaze. He might be okay with all this. I am not. If he didn't think it before, he must now think I'm a wallflower or something.

His voice gets me out of my rigor, though. "I'm ready too," I answer timidly and wince at the sound of my voice. I'm such a bad liar. I'm pretty sure he knows that I'm not okay at all.

"Alright, then you should start painting? The time... we don't have much."

"Y-yes, sorry!" I exclaim but refuse to raise my head. Another minute passes after this despite my apology, with me still busy mixing paint. Peeta sighs, but does not get out of his position.

"Katniss, please. Look at me," he says. "It's my job. You can look."

You _need_ to look.

I bite my lower lip. I'm embarrassing myself here, I think. I really need to get over it already.

"Sorry," I mumble again and, this time, slowly raise my head. My eyes don't go to his body, but concentrate on the wall behind him, before going back to his face and locking mine to his. They're still distant; as if another person was standing there. Like there's a wall in between us and it's not Peeta at all. Before me stands a stranger which makes me feel slightly better.

But only slightly.

Still, his eyes on me make me nervous. He might be wondering what's going on in my head right now. He must be thinking that I'm a prude. He must be regretting that he invited me here today.

One thing I do know is: I can't paint while having him watching me.

Does it sound strange? I am supposed to be watching him. He's supposed to be the exposed one.

Why do I feel like it's exactly the other way around?

I need to change that. I shift my easel to another position and Peeta lifts his eyebrow as if he wanted to ask what I'm doing, but he keeps quiet. "I think it will look better from over here," I lie; feeling that I need to explain what I'm doing so he won't think I'm a jerk. "Just stay like that and look out of the window." There, now he won't be looking at me at all.

"Okay," he replies, carefully, as he accepts my proposition. I see him shift a little, and I can tell he's changing his supporting leg for whatever reason. His head turns back to the window and this strange wall between us is up again. I'm relieved. He can't watch me anymore. I feel freer.

I take him in for the first time. _All_ of him. And wow, I mean it's not the first time for me, seeing a man, but this is something different. He is something different from my usually entourage.

This is when I, all of a sudden, get a very strange feeling in my stomach that makes my breath hitch. His well-built – did I say that already? His sculpted muscles are relaxed and his smooth skin seems to be glowing in the morning sun. The light gets caught in his golden, unruly hair and is being reflected by his disbelievingly blue eyes. He is standing here like he owned the whole place; his presence overwhelms me and draws everything close to him into meaninglessness.

How the fuck do I replicate that?

I can't say how long I gawk at him since I lose track of time. I don't want to stare (probably drool) at his best piece, because I'm sure he'd feel disgusted if he caught me; so I concentrate on other things, like the stubble on his strong jaw and his almost hairless (I wonder if it's just a really, really clean-shaved) chest. His abdomen is muscular and he's got a delicious outline of where you might find a six-pack, but it's not too much like the ones of a bodybuilder.

Unfortunately there's no way for me to look at his (I'm pretty sure it is) firm derriere, so I need to use my imagination. And, even more unfortunately, my imagination works good for me.

My stomach flutters, my throat has gone dry, and I know that I'm close to a really dangerous territory already; I'm happy that he's wearing that ring on his finger but… it's getting harder and harder to ignore him. To not feel some kind of fascination and affection for him, at all.

He's breathtaking. Every single inch of him.

He is the embodiment of beauty.

He is art.

And for now, I am his artist.

* * *

"I need a break," he sighs and bends down to get his bathrobe.

It takes him two seconds and he's clothed again. I look at him irritatedly.

"It's been only twenty minutes?" I remark and I'd like to slap myself. Fuck my rude mouth!

Wait, that's a kind of dubious thing to think Katniss.

I'm happy that Peeta doesn't seem to mind my question.

"Posing is harder than you think. I can't stand in this position longer than that because my joints start to hurt. I'd change my supporting leg, but I know it wouldn't help you. You only need to see one position so… how about you work on the background? I'll go and shake my limbs a little."

"Fine," I reply when he leaves the room and I'm glad that my brain seems to work properly again. When he stands there it looks so easy and relaxed, but he'll actually need more than five breaks for today's session, truth be told. It must be really exhausting to do, I bet.

Painting until now was horrible, by the way. I didn't dare to look at him more than that one gawking. I sketched him, yes, but only a raw scribble, nothing more. Where his manhood's supposed to be for example, I just left a blank space. I hope I'll get braver with more time.

I can only hope.

Two minutes later Peeta returns with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands and places one on the little table next to me. "I thought you might like some coffee, too," he explains, sipping his own. "I remember you were sitting in front of the coffee dispenser, so…"

"Thank you," I say and I'm sure my voice's too loud with just that one phrase, but I can't help myself, I'm just too surprised. He's either perceptive or a rather fine people-person. Both?

"You're welcome. Would you like to have some sugar or milk?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. You shouldn't have…"

"It's cool." He sets down his own, turns around, and walks back to the middle of the room.

"Let's continue, okay?"

I nod as he gets back to his position and gets rid of the robe again. I expected this whole thing to get easier with time, but I still feel far too nervous to paint like I'm expected to paint him.

Another twenty minutes pass, when my phone rings.

Now, of all times! Shit.

Nobody calls me usually. Not out of nowhere. Most of the time there's some emergency I need to deal with. Thus, I can't ignore that horrible ringtone and I don't think about it at all when I find it in my bag and answer the call. Then it occurs to me that I'm being incredibly rude by doing so.

I can't accept calls while Peeta's standing naked in front of me, can I? I contemplate hanging up again when I hear _his_ voice through the receiver: "Kitty? You there?" Cato... _great_.

"Don't call me that," I answer with a huff, remembering how he used to call the both of us 'Kitty-Cat'. Definitely not something I wanted to remember, thanks. "Why are you calling?"

He chuckles on the other end. He likes it when I'm harsh and he told me this every time when we were in bed together. Not at first, of course. My harshness (and his telling me so) started when I began to understand what kind of guy he was. Not the sweet loving kind, but a kind much more brutal and certainly darker. I began to hate every second with him and leaving him probably was the best decision I've ever had in my entire life. So, that leaves to say, why is he calling me?

"Mhhh… I like when you talk to me like that," he says.

Yuck.

"I know. See, I got no time for this, I'm kinda..." I glance at Peeta, who's frowning, "...occupied."

I shoot him an apologetic smile and shrug.

"Oh, I understand. You're fucking right now," he states, his voice growing serious. Alarmed.

"Hell _no!_" I yell into the phone, dead-embarrassed and I put my face into my left hand. This is so him. I'm sure he's getting jealous, too. Well it's not my fault that he got dumped – well...

Unfortunately he knows me well enough, so he knows how to play his cards.

This damn prick had gotten my attention again. "Stop it. Right now!"

"Okay. Your wish is my command, Kitty. I don't believe you, though. Your voice sounds strange. Higher. I can tell something's up with you." There's a naked and – I'll be damned – very hot man in front of me and I can look at him as long as I want. There's nothing up with me, is there?

"It's none of your business, alright? I need to go now."

"Hang on a sec, Kitty, wait. As much as I like to hear your voice, I actually called with a good reason. I wanted to ask you if you've thought about my offer concerning SOCCO yet?"

No, I haven't. Because I'm hopefully not dropping out! "Yes, I have," I lie smoothly. "Ummmm.. I'll call you later okay? We can talk about the job then. I really need to hang up now. Okay?"

"You'll call? You never call, babe."

He's right. I don't. "I'll call, okay? I promise… Bye, Cato."

I don't wait for his reply and hang up as fast as I can.

_And yeah, you're right._ _I definitely will not call you._

I throw my phone back into my bag, frowning. I would have been better off if I had given my phone to Peeta to begin with. "Sorry," I mumble. "I shouldn't have answered that. It was rude."

I look up and when my eyes meet his I realize two things.

He's wearing his bathrobe again and he's pissed.

Really pissed.

I stare at him, my eyes wide in surprise. I fucked up. I probably just did the rudest thing you could possibly do to a model. "Peeta?" I ask, not sure about how to approach him; I don't know him, or his temper, which is frightening. "I'm sorry, really. It's just a friend calling me and asking something. I was stupid for accepting the phone and I'm really sorry. It won't happen again and-"

"Job? What job?" he interrupts me and I realize that he's listened to the whole conversation; which still doesn't explain why he's upset. Clearly upset. "Where are you working right now?"

Oh god.

If I told him that I work in that shithole of Crane's, he'll definitely be disappointed in me.

"Just.. just some bar in the neighborhood." Smooth.

He looks even more dismayed than before, so I try to make the best of a bad job. "But... but we were talking about another job. I mentioned it before at school, remember? At SOCCO's."

He doesn't even need a millisecond to think of an answer.

"You can't possibly work there," he says.

"I- I know. I won't. I'm not planning on calling back anyway," I say, nervously, still bewildered by the brunt of his anger. "Cato, this um... friend just doesn't know how to give up. That's all."

Peeta seems to think about what I just said and I try to figure out why I'd upset him this much. Clearly, it's not because I took a phone call in particular but more what I was talking about.

Peeta decides to break the silence. "Yesterday you told me you would go to SOCCO if you couldn't take your missed exam. If you failed this semester, I mean. And you're still going to accept the offer if you fail now," he observes. I bite the inside of my cheeks, nodding.

"It's not like I want to," I admit. "It's my last choice, really. But I've got other things to worry about and shouldn't be picky about the jobs. And apparently, they pay you good money."

I realize that I shouldn't have said that; his indignant expression speaks volumes. But honestly, I'd do it for Prim. I'm already working at a shithole named Crane's and if the worst comes to the worst, I would even go back to Cato for her. Not in a relationship of course but...

"Oh no! That's not an option!" he says, fiercely, and clenches his fists that makes his sexy muscles and veins stand out even more. Unfortunately I can't appreciate how hot he looks when he's angered; I'm too much taken aback by his burst of emotion mostly because I didn't see it coming. Plus, he's a good guy helping a damsel in distress (literally me) so I can't fight back like I usually would do. "You can't do that. It's the worst! You don't know how they're earning their money," he continues to say.

Oh. And he knows this... how? He wants to be the big guy? "Then tell me." I roughly push my brushes aside and they chatter onto the floor. "Tell me about it and I'll judge," I challenge.

He sighs irritated and ruffles his golden hair. "No one can know about this, alright?" he asks and his expression gets even more serious than before. "You can't tell anyone about this."

"I promise." The words are out of my mouth before I can think about it. I promised Cato I'd call him – Peeta heard that – and then I assured him moments later that I wouldn't do that one thing a few seconds after. I'm not sure if he believes that my promises are actually trustworthy.

The look in his eyes tells me that he is thinking the same thing.

"I promise, really now," I say.

"Okay," he relents after a moment. "You could get into serious trouble if you spread word. SOCCO's actually not that trustworthy and reliable as you think. They pretend to be nice and help you, give you loans and a good salary, but it's actually really a dangerous business. After they give you the money you need, time passes, and they start to blackmail you, bleed you out."

Uhh-huuh?

He's not being serious, is he? SOCCO does not have the best reputation, that's for granted, but what he's saying sounds like some bad mafia movie or something. I roll my eyes at him.

So much for not being rude, Katniss. "I've never heard of this, and I have to admit that your story sounds a little bit farfetched, don't you think? Why would you know all that? Rumor, gossip?"

"My friend got involved with them a year ago and he's trying to get out ever since, but they get back at him all the time. They also threatened to kill him once when he couldn't pay back his loan. It's also necessary for him to find new people to work for SOCCO, or he'll get punished."

Seriously?

And what about Cato? Does he work for them, too? Is he struggling? Trying to get out?

Is he forced to bring me in there, too?

I feel slightly sick as the possibilities flood through me. I might have treated him in the wrong way all along. Then again, should I trust strangers? A stranger, who I've seen naked, that is.

I stay silent while thousands of thoughts are running through my head. If what Peeta's telling me is true, there would be no way for me to join SOCCO. I need money to ensure Prim a better life, not make it more dangerous. And, by all means, I'd never expose her to any kind of danger.

"Do you have any… proof?" I ask him, trying to be intimidating.

He shakes his head. "I don't. But I also don't have any reason to lie to you, do I?"

No. I mean, I can tell he's a good person.

"Thank you for telling me this. I'll call my friend and tell him I found something elsewhere."

After this exchange, Peeta seems to be relieved, but even when he undresses himself again to continue our work I can tell that he never finds his relaxed pose again. He is tense, lacking in concentration and moving quite a lot. Unlike before, where he'd been the perfect model.

I wasn't very good, either. Our talk about SOCCO makes me feel sick and unsure about my contact with Cato. I don't even know if he needs my help. I remember him coming home with bruises all over his body and I figured that he'd been fighting on the streets, idiot that he is. He got aggressive and loud, and everything that I didn't want to have in boyfriend, so I left him.

I wonder why I'd never talked to him about all of this, about his job, trouble, stress...

Guilt washes over me.

* * *

The two hours are almost over before I know it and my painting looks awful.

Why?

I got the best – yes the best – model I've ever seen (okay, the first model but still…) and I just go screw it up? He looks beautiful and august in real life, but it's a different story for my painting.

Even a stick figure would be looking better.

I'm so embarrassed. I'd like to actually just crawl under a rock (and die. Why not?).

While I try to save something, anything, Peeta gets dressed.

"How's it going?" he asks, clearly trying to be good-humored again, but his expression falls a little when he sees mine. Do I look angry and angsty, or just distressed? "So bad, huh?"

I shake my head, angry. Why can't I do it?

Peeta did his best, I know that. He even gave up one of his periodic breaks; just to give me more time so I'm sure he must be hurting somehow right now. I'm sure he's disappointed in my work.

At least (and I'm happy about that) he's just a model.

He might not be able to tell how bad I am right now.

He manages to surprise me again, though. "I'm sorry," he says and his eyes look kind of sad. "I wasn't really good in the end. I'll make it up to you, somehow."

"What? No, no, no, it's not your fault at all!" I tell him sincerely. I can't believe that he's blaming himself for my lousy performance today. I discover again that he really is a selfless person. "It's just not my day. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure," I say, trying to soothe him and also myself. After a slight hesitation, I add:"I'd be happy if you didn't look at it yet, though. Is that alright?"

"Okay, I promise," he says, raising his eyebrow.

I hope he's better with keeping promises than I am.


	3. Chapter Three

AN: More of Elsterbird's lovely fic, edited by me. Thank you for reading.

* * *

Chapter Three

Peeta brings me back to the train station around eleven in the morning and assures me to get me the same time for pick up tomorrow. I'm glad that we're finished for today. I feel exhausted; physically and emotionally. Peeta has worn me out without doing (almost) anything. I'm pretty sure he feels the same, because after that phone call he fell uncomfortably silent, brooding.

"Thank you for the ride," I mumble when I open the car's door. "See you tomorrow?"

He nods, waves and gives me a smile. It's small, but existent.

* * *

The ride train home is short. When I get there I pack all my things and take the next bus to school. I wished I could just go to bed after seeing Peeta, but it's not even midday when I left.

I arrive to Ms. Portia's lesson around one. Usually I'd say I was working but this time I say that I'm feeling sick. Which I kind of do. I don't even have to lie, so I won't feel guilty afterward.

Miss Portia takes it good and tells me to take it slow.

She's a real goddess compared to Eff.

I'm not that interested into textiles and clothes (I think you can tell, since I'm the girl with yellow stains on her jeans. By the way, yeah, I'm going to wear them nevertheless.) but I try to give my best. Luckily I sit next to Cinna, an incredibly gifted student who's got a knack for this stuff. He really is a big inspiration; sometimes I'd copy his design a little – just a little, he never found out until today – and my works are getting close to presentable. Portia likes to exaggerate every now and then, actually claiming that I'm a genius like Cinna, who shoots me a bright and genuine smile every time I get praised. I think I like him the most out of my class. He's cute and friendly and...

Most likely gay.

Not that I care.

When I get home around six tonight, I prepare dinner as fast as I can. Prim's already finished her homework and helps me by setting up the table. Usually, dinner time is pretty short, since my shift starts around seven, so I shovel the food into my mouth like a combine harvester.

Prim looks at me disapprovingly. "You should take it slow, sis," she admonishes me, looking concerned. "Have you taken a break today? Even once? I'm really worried about you."

I roll my eyes. Seriously Prim? We both kind of lost both of our parents and I'm pretty sure that I am supposed to be the mother figure out of the two of us – not her. "Breaks don't fill stomachs."

"Yeah, but breaks can keep you healthy. Overworking yourself can get you ill," she argues. I bring my glass to my lips and give her a pointed look. She doesn't heed it, however.

Instead she suggests her latest idea to improve our lifestyle.

"I could work too, you know."

I gasp and nearly spew the water over the entire table, and her. "Work?! Prim, tell me again how old you are. You can't. Who will hire you? Plus, I'm never gonna allow it, not even in ten years!" There's no chance I would let her work. I imagine her working at Crane's where old men would grope at her, or worse... I feel my stomach drop already. Respect is what she deserves, not that.

"But –" she tries again, desperately.

"No buts! You don't have time anyway, do you? You've got school to worry about. I don't want your grades to drop. You're gonna be a doctor and make me proud, remember? You have other worries than money and food. Let me do this for you, for us. If you want to do something, just promise me that you'll study hard from now on. That's more than enough for me, little duck."

Prim pouts before shoving another spoon of the mashed potatoes in her mouth. "Still..." she says, not able to admit defeat, swallowing contemplatively. But I know her well enough that she won't continue to bother me about that stuff for now. She'll continue tomorrow, though.

I place my spoon down and empty my glass. "I'm off to Crane's," I tell her, standing up. "Could you bring mom dinner and wash the dishes when you're finished? You would help me a lot."

"Yes! I'll do it," she says, jumping at the chance.

I know that Prim wants to do something to assist me, so I give her small tasks to keep her quiet and satisfied. She feels better afterward and not as useless. She's definitely not, for I could never go on fighting without her, keeping me sane and with purpose, but she keeps thinking it, I know.

I feel bad that I can't finish dinner with her – one simple task, really – but at least we got some minutes together. That's all I can offer her right now. I kiss her temple as we say goodbye, check my makeup which I had put on before dinner, and leave – trying not to linger too long.

I can't wait for holidays where I will get more of a chance to work throughout the day. I'd love to get the opportunity to tuck her in, like dad used to do before our life became ...complicated.

* * *

Work is bad as usual. Not as bad as yesterday, but still degrading.

I wonder if I should keep my eyes open for a new job. I heard that SOCCO plans to buy Crane's, too, and this could become dangerous quickly if Peeta's words could be believed.

I shake my head. Peeta.

I can't deny that he left an impression on me (and I don't mean his body... not entirely, anyway) and I still need to figure out what kind of impression it is. First I thought that he just felt sorry so he decided to model for me in spite of everything. If it weren't for the ring, I would have thought that he'd just tried to pick me up. But clearly those aren't his motivation. So I still wonder why he's being this nice to me. Didn't he primarily tell me that it was impossible; that there'd be no time to help me? Didn't he also ask me how much I would be willing to pay him for his services? He wasn't going to do it for free at first, obviously, so what made him change his mind abruptly?

There must be a reason.

Well, I don't think that he thinks very well of me, especially when I remember our first meeting.

My ass was covered in yellow paint, for fuck's sake!

Was it because of something I said?

He surely is not interested in me or my looks, since he's got that fiance or wife waiting for him at home. (He would be a really young husband, but honestly, if I were his girlfriend I'd probably commit him to be mine immediately, too. Also, the ring really looks like a wedding band.)

I replay our conversation from yesterday in my head, hoping to find something to work with. I told him about dropping out, which made him frown. I told him that I would look for work.

I told him about considering SOCCO.

Realization hits me.

It took me some time to find out (but I finally did) that he immediately agreed to help me when I mentioned going to SOCCO. He'd jumped and said that he'll help me with my exam, no pay.

He clearly didn't not want me to join this company, and I'm pretty sure that he didn't do it for just me – he'd have done this for anyone. That's how much he dislikes the company, I supposed.

With what he'd told me about this establishment earlier, it made perfectly sense to me.

Peeta's far too nice and selfless, I decide.

I can't help myself for being honestly impressed.

* * *

**Early next day (Wednesday), 1 a.m**

Cato calls again. And again. And probably just for kicks and giggles, _again_.

I really wish he would cut it out; it's not impossible to ignore, of course, even this late at night. I know I won't answer the calls, because I still haven't figured out what I should tell him. Still, the constant vibrating of my phone draws him and the problem of finding words for him into focus.

Sorry Cato, I won't join you?

I know what's going on with SOCCO and I don't want to get involved?

And not with you of all people in this world?

Cato, I'm so sorry all of this happened to you?

I should have noticed that you were in trouble?

I should have helped you when you needed it the most?

Cato, stop calling me already?

I frown. I don't know what to do. None of them seem like the right thing to say – all having the potential to lead to dangerous places. So I let him ring, and ring. He'll surely shut up soon.

* * *

My shift at Crane's ended at one, but taking the bus home I get there around one-thirty (Cato still ringing along inside my bag). Immediately, I toss myself into bed. Not to sleep (I need to see Prim) but to take a short break that my legs definitely need. My feet hurt because of those damn heels. And Cato can't seem to understand the meaning of nighttime. Because he calls me again.

For fuck's sake.

After some time I get up and go on my way to the kitchen. I need something to drink because my throat hurts from all that smoke. Surprise, surprise. We're out of milk and honey. We've been out for a while now, actually, and it's the best for sore throat, but I don't want to spend all the money for me. If I can afford a new pair of socks for my sister, I'll gladly endure that ache forever.

I go back to my room to change into my pajamas, when my phone rings again.

It's not a call, but a message. Seriously? It's around two in the morning, and there's no way Cato would be writing messages now, is there? He never writes, anyway. It's always a call.

I take my phone because I'm curious and gasp when I see the name of the sender.

It's not from Cato but Peeta. I hadn't expected it.

'**Sorry, it's me. Are you still up? –Peeta'**

Peeta. Why would he write? Is this really okay to stay in contact beyond our arrangement? I feel like he's doing something forbidden, unethical. He's my nude model! Not my... texting friend?

I mean it's not even like we were friends, actually, so...

'**Yes, I'm up. How can I help you?'** I type, but I get the feeling that my wording is too formal, too polite... and I don't want to appear so cool and plain. I delete the message and retype.

'**Yea, wazzup?'**

I shouldn't try to write like Johanna does. Okay... how about being little more myself?

'**Yeah. What's up?' **is what I actually send. It's better being casual, but not too much either.

I wait a few minutes (wondering why the hell he would actually contact me and scolding myself on why I shouldn't be so concerned on the manner in which I text) until my phone buzzes again.

'**Could you come by earlier tomorrow? I'm really sorry for changing plans, but I need to finish some business around noon.' **Business? He's a nude model. What sort of business?

I wonder who else he might be stripping for.

I read it again and I'm kind of surprised how long his message is (which makes me smile). Gale would have written the whole text shorter, like 'come earlier 2mrw. som business'.

'**It's okay, don't worry about it. What time do you want me to come over?'** I reply and wait. It takes some minutes again and I almost expect him to send a long, really long answer (I mean, his answer comes seven minutes later, that's quite a time) but his reply turns out to be very short.

'**8:30 a.m.'** the message says.

Well, it's still better than Gale's stupid '8300'.

Is he busy? Or thinking about what to write? Because it definitely is what I'm doing right now.

Anyway. Half past eight is completely fine with me. I'd now miss the first lesson in the morning, too, but seriously, I'm sure I wouldn't go anyway. **'Kay.' **Before I can push the send button, another message comes in. I quickly send my answer to Peeta and open the next short message. I raise my eyebrows in confusion because it's from Peeta, and the message is a bit upsetting.

'**And I must apologize for not keeping our promise. I looked at your painting, I'm sorry.'**

It was enough to rub the stupid grin from my face. Why the fuck did he do that? I didn't want him to see! Especially because I tried so hard to not look at his crotch - so I never drew it.

He must think I'm so very prude like a boring little wallflower. Who is up at two in the morning?

I don't answer him after that. I'm pissed and embarrassed; I just don't know which one outweighs the other. I decide to put my phone away for a second since I'm tired, still annoyed by Cato and kind of disappointed that Peeta did not keep his promise. It's not the best combination of feelings to write back with, so I let it be. Best let him think I'm uncaring, instead of sulking at him.

I finally get around to checking on Prim and sigh when I find her; she's sleeping slumped over her desk, her hands still on her biology textbook. To think I told her to do it earlier, too.

I wake her up gently.

"Hey, little duck. You're supposed to be sleeping in your bed, remember."

She blinks and smiles at me lazily. "Welcome back," she says and wraps her tiny arms around me. She doesn't say it but I know she had been waiting for me.

I stroke her hair. "How's mom?"

"The same as usual, I guess," she mumbles. "She ate some mashed potatoes."

At least she's eating. "That's good. You should go to sleep, you shouldn't be up this late."

Prim is so different from me, I think, watching her crawl into bed. She was born so far off from me, I was convinced that I'd be a single child forever. I'm twenty-one now and Prim is twelve.

Nine years difference... so sometimes I feel more of a mother than a sister, really.

I tuck her in and kiss her forehead and cheek.

She falls back to sleep immediately. Prim is such a good girl.

I fear the time when she'll be older and start to act like a real teenager. I won't have enough time to guide her all the way through to adulthood... through drugs and drinking and drama. Also, I need to be the one who talks to her about boys, too (as if I were the best choice for this job...).

I would have done it before, if Prim wasn't kind of a late bloomer. She never showed any interest towards the opposite sex at this time and I'm perfectly fine with that. I hope she'll never grow up.

I hope she'll never notice how Rory Hawthorne looks at her.

* * *

Back in my room, I brush my teeth and this time I actually remember to remove my makeup (I'm going to meet Peeta in a few hours) before I stumble into my room. I'm so tired and exhausted that I know that I'll fall asleep even faster than Prim did. I just throw myself into the blankets and reach for my phone to set the alarm (not going to be late!) when I notice another text from Peeta.

'**The owner of the studio accidentally knocked your canvas over. I needed to make sure that it was unharmed. I'm sorry, please don't be mad. Goodnight. - P' **Oh. _Oh._ Thank god.

I'm glad I hadn't answered him before. Because I wouldn't have been nice to him at all.

Peeta – so unlike me – is. Of course, I accepted his apology and didn't spend another minute thinking about it, or reply. I'm just too exhausted to deal with anything other than sleep. And I slept well tonight, almost too well. I didn't even notice all those calls that usually would have kept me up; Cato. When I wake up the next morning (still tired), I count five missed calls.

I really should pick up and tell him to fuck off, but I don't.

I need to deal with other (more important) things first.

I get out of my bed, swiftly jumping into the shower to wash my hair. I use a little bit more shampoo than usual (because we almost never buy some; too expensive...) so I look at least a little bit more presentable than I have in the past two days. I even decide against my stained, yellow jeans and settle for black khakis that Johanna gave me once. I don't like them, because the waist is too low for my liking, but they're definitely the best pair I own (without stains or holes).

Oh, even in my cleanly state I look like nothing. I decline the makeup; I need to save it for work. Clove would throw a right fit I showed up without wearing it, and it's fairly expensive itself.

Who cares.

I do.

I pretend not to, though.

* * *

**Wednesday, 8:32 a.m**

We meet again on the train station. This time Peeta waits for me directly at the track, in person, which makes me frown a little. He's not supposed to do that, right? Meeting in front of the station in a car is perfectly fine to me, and it should be fine to him, too. It would be professional.

Well, it is why I'm pretty unprepared when I see him standing there all of a sudden.

There was no time to brace myself for our second meeting.

"Hey!" he calls and waves at me while flashing me his best smile. His hair still looks as unruly as I remember it; soft golden waves that stretch over his forehead and part of his eyebrows, too.

Today he wears a pair of washed out jeans and a white shirt that hugs his well-sculpted chest (I can tell) just perfectly. Altogether with his intense blue eyes and his beautiful, soft stubble, he's nothing more than an eye candy. He's hot. He's beautiful. And he's _married, married, married_.

I'm definitely not going to fall for a married guy.

"Hey…" I mumble back, not sure what to make of this situation. I mean, this Adonis look alike was waiting for me, here, and I'm not extremely comfortable with that, or the texting last night.

When he gets closer, I'm not even sure how to greet him. I'm happy that he's far more used to... well, being social and that _he_ is less uncomfortable. He extends his hand without another thought – and thank god he's taken the initiative. Being open and outgoing is not something anyone could expect from a social pariah like me. Like the moment I touch him, I realize just how _real_ this is.

That he's not just a thing to place on paper, he's physically _real_. Skin, bones and everything.

I let go of his hand as if he'd burned my palm. He looks confused.

"Well..," I say, my voice definitely too loud. "Um.. thanks for getting me?"

He somehow understands that I meant to ask him why he'd come.

"You're welcome. There was no parking lot near the main entrance, so I brought my car to the back. I figured that I should get you instead of texting... I was early anyway."

Oh. Okay, that figures. And makes me feel slightly better.

We get to the car in silence. Well, I am silent for my part. Peeta chatters on and on and tries to keep some small talk going, on one thing to the next. He grows a little frustrated though when he realizes that I don't plan on making big conversation with him, so he stops eventually. I cringe.

If we were being honest, I'd like to hear more of his voice.

I'd really like to talk to him, too, don't misunderstand me. I'm just bad at saying something, anything. I'm tired, too, and kind of agitated, so I decide to stay mostly silent. I wouldn't be able to say something intelligent anyway, and most likely I would come off worse than I already do.

The drive seems longer than yesterday. It might have something to do with the tension that hangs heavily over our heads. Am I imaging things? Could just be me. All I know is that it's even worse than yesterday. I need to say something, I realize, no matter if it's petty or stupid. I can't stand this silence after the second longest red light in the history of long red lights you can sit at.

"You texted really late... ummm early..." I say.

He chuckles a little. Oh, this might be my favorite sound.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I just remembered it too late that I needed to write you."

"Not at all. It's alright. I'm just glad my horrible ringtone woke me up," I lie. It wouldn't be very beneficial if I told him I'd been at work or, more accurately, just getting home from work. Logically he might not believe me since I've got dark circles under my eyes, but on the other hand, when have I not? I don't think he knows they're dark circles and not just how my face is.

Peeta simply nods and smiles while turning onto a one-way street.

Like I thought, he can't tell. He doesn't know me, and even if he did, I look like this for more than over a year. He would not notice. I shouldn't be so pessimistic and doubtful all the time.

He interrupts my train of thoughts.

"Sorry for breaking my promise," he says. "It wasn't right of me."

I shrug. His explanation the other night had been satisfying enough, so I tried to not think about it much. He tried to help me after that guy, the owner of the studio, who had knocked my work over, so I can't get unfairly angry. Still, I hadn't written back so he might still think I'm upset.

"It's okay, really. It couldn't be helped, could it? There's no need to apologize, and apparently, you do that a lot," I say. I haven't heard (and read) that many apologies for maybe three weeks.

"Sor– ...I mean, yeah. You're right." He scratches his neck. "Force of habit I guess."

I smile when he tried to apologize again. It was funny, indeed. And kinda cute of him.

"Well, just don't break your promise like I did. Okay?" he starts again.

To never talk about SOCCO's way of keeping and getting new workers.

"Don't worry. I'll keep it a secret," I say to soothe him.

"Have you called that guy?" he asks, before flushing hard. "I know I'm not in the place to ask but..." I shake my head to tell him that it's okay before he can finish his sentence.

"No, I haven't and I won't," I say. "He on the other hand is calling me all the time, though." Unnecessary detail? I shouldn't share this with him, I don't even know why I did it. But I know he'd be interested, which I guess is odd, but at least it's not dull to him? This can't be normal...

"How about changing your number?" he suggests.

"I might just do that." I laugh halfheartedly. I can't. He'd find me again anyway.

When we arrive to the studio, the tension returns full force. He steps out to change and I try to get all my paints ready. When I look at the canvas I feel like I want to cry. Why can't the floor just open under my feet? I'd welcome it. The painting looks worse than I remember it.

I think I got the proportions right, but the pose and the colors are a different story. Something is clearly wrong, but I can't figure it out at all. Sighing, I put my phone into silent mode and then back into my bag. I wouldn't pick it up for god even. The only exception being Prim of course.

I need to work it out today, the sketching, so I can finally move onto the actual paints.

Peeta reemerges from the other room, wearing nothing but his bathrobe. I feel self-conscious, as if I were the one exposed, again, and I can't exactly put a finger on this strange feeling.

"Are you ready?" he asks, quickly glancing at the backside of my canvas.

I wonder what he's thinking.

"Yes. You can start," I reply and damn, it feels like I'd told him, "Go and strip for me already!"

Of course I wouldn't ever tell him that. And I'm happy he can't read my thoughts.

As soon as the fabric leaves his skin, I'm encountered with many difficulties.

Looking at him.

Matching the colors.

Bring him down to canvas as beautifully and sexy as he is.

It doesn't work, though. For the first time I wished that I could ask Effie for advice. She's a bitch, really, but she knows her stuff. As I look up at Peeta, I try to recall her lessons. Effie says that we need to understand what's before us. I need to understand him, not just his _body_. He's not just an object but actually human. He lives, breathes, feels. Not something I need to picture, but capture.

I've never looked at him properly. I mean, I never tried to understand him. I never tried to think about him, since it's so hard looking at him. And hell, yes, I want to look at him so badly.

Okay, calm down Everdeen.

This is for yours and Prim's future.

I decide to catch up on everything; taking in all the details.

Not only his beautiful hair or his deep eyes, but more of him, beyond superficial means.

I glance at his face and notice a tiny scar on his right eyebrow that splits it in half. I know guys who would shave some lines into their brows because they think it looks sexy (it does not!), but Peeta is an entire different story. It looks good on him; almost too good. Natural? Or fake?

He's got some very light freckles on his nose and his left cheek, which seems to be very smooth. He's got stubble, yes, but his skin looks really soft and touchable to me. His oh-so-blue eyes are framed with dark (I mean darker than his normal hair) eyelashes. They're actually pretty long, I guess many girls would feel jealous over it. (I might actually feel a bit of twinge myself.)

His plump mouth is through and through kissable, very kissable, and I wonder who that damn lucky girl is who claims it every night. This is more of a reason to get jealous over.

Then: his jaw. Fuck me, his jaw. It's almost too much for me to bear, whenever he bites down hard, his temples would stand up a little and... yeah, it's pretty enough to say that he does it all the time.

And it might be doing things to me.

I bite my lip. I shouldn't. I look away. I need to concentrate on other things.

I decide to start again, the whole 'details huzza!' technique. Downstairs.

I notice his ankles, which are extremely thin compared to his calves. He did or still does sports, without a doubt, and I'm sure that he didn't start it just recently but maybe since he was a kid.

His feet are (god, thank you, hairless!) average sized, his toenails neat. His big toe is shorter than the second one and I can see the veins and sinews on the back of the foot. Easy to see, harder to sketch, I might add. (Oh, and he's actually sporting a thin scar on his knee that stretches over his thigh. It's almost invisible. I haven't noticed it until now. Definitely want to included that.)

His thighs, strong, lead me to his glorious manhood. Well, I guess he's a little bit shorter than Cato's, but that says nothing at all. Cato's did not really grow – if you know what I mean.

Peeta however, mhhhh… I wonder how Peeta's would be… How delicious...

I almost slap myself, a telling heat pooling in my lower abdomen. Fuck, Katniss! Ring, remember? Dangerous way of thinking! Very, very dangerous place to let your mind go to!

I let out a shuddering breath, realizing that as I was staring, I had been biting my lower lip. Hard.

Suddenly, I hear Peeta clear his throat. Shame washes over me as my eyes shoot up to meet his immediately and I'm surprised that I'm not the only one who seems to feel embarrassed. His cheeks are surprisingly red and he looks like he's really trying to keep his bearings together.

Before I can say anything to apologize (should I?) he turns away and picks up his bathrobe.

"I... I need a break," he breathes and storms out of the room within seconds.

Fuck.

How long had he been looking at me gawking at him? How long did I not notice his gaze? I know I looked at him like a raw piece of meat and I did exactly what I primarily didn't want to do. I'm not like the others. I don't want to be like them. I don't want to be a creep to him!

But still, here I was, practically eye fucking my model.

Cato used to always say I'm too obvious and that it's too easy to figure out what I'm thinking. My face always betrays me. Peeta might know _exactly_ what I was imagining just moments ago, and I can only think that I've offended him. I would be offended – to offer someone my body to help them and then to be so violated and ogled. The least I could have done was wait until he was gone. It's been less than fifteen minutes of his posing and he's already in need to get a break.

I'm so stupid, details? Pft. More like a pathetic excuse to eyes fuck.

Peeta does not return for another fifteen minutes. Maybe he just ran off. I would understand that, since I'm being a big jerk. I'm sure I would have ran away if I found myself in his situation.

He reemerges, however, still wearing his bathrobe instead of his clothes (which gives me a little bit of hope that we'll continue.) His forehead is damp and so are the tips of his hair as if he'd washed his face. His cheeks are reddened still, though less so, and his eyes are full of an emotion I've never seen on him before. He's fidgeting nervously and plays with his ring (_wedding band_).

Oh, oh..

My heart sinks. I know the emotion is not anger, but I'm damn sure he's not happy either.

He's troubled. He's disturbed. I expect him to throw me out of here.

But, being so very Peeta, he apologizes instead.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have... I mean... well," he says, scratching his neck and looking mortified.

He mirrors my feelings exactly.

"D-don't apologize. I... I was... ummmm.." Taking in all your details? Staring? Salivating? What the hell do I plan on telling him? I'm not good with words. They'll come out wrong and make the situation even worse. It's better to say nothing at all. So I do exactly that. I bite on my lower lip again and turn my eyes away entirely. I wait for him to finally throw me out, but he just sighs.

"Let's just... continue, I guess?"

He's still willing to work with me after I chased him out of this studio? (Slightly exaggerated.)

He's far more forgiving than I ever imagined.

If I was in his shoes, I would have ended this session ASAP.

"Okay..." I breathe, trying to regain composure. "Thank you..."

He raises his eyebrow in question.

"Yeah? Ummm.. thank you… umm… too?" He clears his throat anew, avoiding my eyes.

I can't shake the feeling that we're at cross-purposes. He looks perplexed and I feel so, too.

I frown. He frowns. Somehow something seems to dawn on him because he shakes his head and ruffles his hair before saying, "Let's just forget that, shall we?" And that's that. I don't get it at all.

I really don't.

We start over again.

The next hour goes pretty smooth. I'm not talking about the painting, but the tension between us. Peeta seems to be relaxed again, far too relaxed. I, on the contrary, feel like a wreck, still wondering what had happened this morning. I know I could never ask Peeta for forgiveness again once this session is over and he drives me back. He's trying so hard to forget everything.

I might not be the first one to look at him like this, after all. I shouldn't feel so bad.

When he picks up his bathrobe again, I know that it's time for another break. Peeta held out for forty minutes and I'm seriously impressed with this achievement. I tried to stand like him at home the other day, hollow back and all. I couldn't do more than probably five minutes.

"How's it?" he asks me out of the blue. My head shoots up.

"I'm still not content. The others in my class did studies on nude models before, but it's my first time. It's so hard… I mean, difficult to…yeah."

He blushes heavily.

Agh, fuck's sake. Who knew you had to be so careful with wording with nude models? Since I'm looking at Peeta, I have tons _uncareful_ words on my tongue. It's hard. I won't leave you hanging.

My fingers feel so stiff…

"Just ignore me, please?" I plead, and he's grinning again. Oh man, we're such an awkward pair.

"Coffee?" he asks me instead and I shake my head 'no'. He leaves the room anyway and returns with a cup for himself and a bottle of water which he hands me when he walks over.

"At least drink something. It won't do you any good if you're not taking a little break at least."

He sends me a shy smile and I'm melting already. How could I say no to him?

Everdeen, this has to stop.

Don't act like a teen meeting Justin Bieber.

That's not you.

Peeta walks around again, stretching, and before I realize it, he stands behind me, studying my unfinished painting with great interest. "Wait!" I exclaim and jump to cover it. "You can't look!"

It's too late though, he's already seen it. Fuck.

"I saw it yesterday, remember?" He chuckles. "I thought I'd wait with my comments first so you could find your mistakes by yourself. They're easier to find if you observe your work from some distance or after a day or two." Well? All I see is that it's still bad! And I don't think a model's comment would be really helpful. If he asks me to paint him better defined abs or something, I don't know what I'd do to him. Because this kind of request is something I really, really hate.

"What would you know?" I mutter, slightly affronted. I know I have mistakes, thanks.

A small smirk tugs on the corners of his mouth, but he tries to hide it.

"Well, can you keep a secret?"

"I'm sure you won't believe me if I promised you I could," I deadpan.

Smooth, Everdeen, _smooth_.

He fishes a pencil out of my case and scribbles something on my canvas before I can react. "HEY!" I yell, and actually _yell_ at him, before trying to bodily push him away. He's faster though, easily dodging my hands and stepping back. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

No one's allowed to write or draw on my pictures, except maybe my tutors. But Peeta? He's just a model. A nude one at that. This is may be the rudest thing he could have ever done to me.

Glaring, I open my mouth to really mouth him off for it – has he not worked with artists before? has he forgotten this is for a exam? – but my eyes fly over the canvas for a second and I gasp.

Two lines. He drew two fucking reference lines over his hips and shoulders.

And it looks finally right.

I turn and stare at him, dumbfounded. How the hell did he see that? He's not even seeing himself! He's posing, and there are very few mirrors around here, might I add.

"What... how?" I say. "How would you know..?"

"It's easy, really. When I stand like this," he says and poses again, "my hips and shoulders are never parallel to each other, but more like a rotated V. The reference lines are pointed, you see?"

He shows it again using my pencil as a bar, but never touching the canvas again.

"You need to concentrate on the supporting leg. You also need to find the axis of my body, here." He takes some paper and starts sketching it out; his whole, damn body. Skilled hands fly over the paper and in matter of seconds, he's constructed an entire map of his own body.

I don't even know how to close my mouth.

I stare at the paper, then at him, and then back to the paper again.

"Wh…what?" I ask, but my voice fails.

"Well, you said you'd keep it a secret, right?" he says. "I usually don't tell anyone, so please, it stays between us, okay? I'm an art student of the University of Zürich. Third semester."

* * *

I hate to admit it, but Peeta is amazing. I'm not sure if it's against the rules of the exam, but he takes his time and explains to me how to do this and that right. He's a better teacher than Gale.

After some time, he just takes a chair and sits next to me, pointing out what I need to change in the picture. "The proportions are really good, you have an eye for that. You're just missing the basics like you said. Actually I was model for your class about three months before, for study. I thought you'd seen me then, but I guess you were absent those days?"

I sigh. Three months ago, yeah. Prim had been pretty sick for a few days. And when she was better again, I needed to work more to pay the bills of her medicine. Cinna told me about a model that had come for sketching. Yes, now that Peeta mentions – it might have been him.

I remember that I was pretty happy (I mean, I just got out of a really bad relationship and I was so fed up with guys) when I heard Cinna say it, where as he, however, sounded a little bit sad, since the model was already taken. It was Peeta, now that I thought of the description. Damn, it had to be Peeta! I would have made acquaintance with his glorious body even sooner if…

I shake my head violently.

Don't go there, you know what happened earlier.

"I remember," I say. "Damn Effs. She gets to decide the topic of our exam. She knows I'm bad with painting and she knew that I've missed all the studies. I don't think it's just bad luck." That bitch! Just because I kicked her son's ass to the curb! Well, I'm not surprised in the least. Like mother, like son. And I'm happy if I don't have to be with or endure Cato anymore…

Peeta raises his eyebrow.

"Miss Effie is a strict person, but I don't think that she'd choose this topic on purpose...?"

Oh Peeta. Cute little Peeta. Of course you wouldn't know. "She totally did. She hates me, Peeta. I was dating her son for a short time and dumped him. She's still angry with me for that."

"Sounds like trouble," he observes and I snort loudly.

"Yeah, pretty much."

Peeta decides to teach me about warm and cool colors, too. I understand now why he wanted me to come over in the mornings, because we'd get the same contrast as my classmates had in their exam: the cold lights outside. "Morning light is often described as cold. There's a rule that says if your light is cold, you need to use warm colors for shadows." He points out some shadows. "You mixed too much blue in here, you see? Have you tried ocher? The results will be far better."

I understand what he's trying to tell me. It also dawns on me tat he tries to stand as clearly as he can when he's modeling, and I remembered that he'd even changed his supporting leg yesterday when I decided to switch places, so I won't make any mistakes. He's thoughtful, perceptive.

And he's clearly trying to get me through that exam.

I don't know how I can possibly thank him after all he does for me.

I wish he wasn't married.


End file.
